


Burning the Years

by Phlyarologist



Category: Etrian Odyssey Series, 新・世界樹の迷宮2 ファフニールの騎士 | Etrian Odyssey Untold 2: The Fafnir Knight
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 12:45:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11851854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phlyarologist/pseuds/Phlyarologist
Summary: Bertrand has nothing but time.(Pre-canon through fourth stratum)





	Burning the Years

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Moriri](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Moriri/) for the beta. And convincing me to play this game in the first place.

It isn't weird, still looking like a teenager well into your twenties. Some people are just like that. He'd say it's in the blood, but hell if he remembers what his birth family looked like. 

It's not weird, forgetting to eat for a week or two at a time. If anything, it's convenient. One less thing to keep track of. One less reason to have to show your face in public – and sure, the manhunt is mostly over, it's not like he's gonna get his head smashed in if he's recognized at a bar these days, but you get into certain habits.

Here's what's weird. That whole ritual was supposed to seal up some kind of Calamity. And then she flipped the script. So the ritual didn't go as planned, so shouldn't the results be a lot more... well... calamitous? Shouldn't something be _wrong?_ Sure, his own life has gone to shit, but when has that ever mattered? The fate of the world was supposed to be at stake. He's not the world. He's just some guy with a fucked-up monster hand and no answers.

* * *

On second thought, the food thing is weird as hell. He needs to put it to the test.

As a kid he ate everything he could get his hands on, as soon as he got his hands on it, never knowing when he'd get his next chance. And then the main family adopted him and hauled his sorry ass uptown, to fancy court dinners where people would _send food away_ if it wasn't cooked right. And the cooking... They used spices so differently when they weren't just trying to make you forget that the meat was going off. The meat was never going off. And they had actual vegetables. And you could have seconds.

Although you weren't actually supposed to have seconds. A smiling lady in a sparkling dress once told him, "It's rare to see someone attack a dinner with such gusto," and it wasn't until three days later that he finally clocked that as an insult.

Considering all that, yeah, it's pretty damn bizarre that he's had no appetite for over a year. But maybe it's just rich-people food that's lost appeal. So here he is in a sketchy part of town at a sketchier food stall, asking this crusty old guy "You got any pigeon?"

It smells amazing, just like when he was little. The skin is crispy. The fat is melting off the bone.

And he's not hungry. He can't swallow. It's like eating chalk.

The old guy says, "Look at Mr. Fancy Britches. No stomach for slumming it with us."

* * *

He doesn't keep track of time, exactly, but on some level he's always dimly aware – ten years since the ritual, fifteen, twenty – fuck, he's gotta be forty years old by now, and he doesn't feel any different. His appearance has changed only a little and the mark not at all. Just how much of this is he in for? How long wandering around doing shady odd jobs, watching everyone else die?

Not that death is a new one. People around him always died, long before he was the Fafnir. He should be used to it.

The rituals are a hundred years apart. So the next one is seventy-some years out. It's kinda looking like he'll never die, so if he has to live that long anyway, then maybe he should be there. Maybe he can do something. Maybe...

But that's so far off. He'll never make it. Can't he just lie down somewhere and wait for it all to stop?

Why not?

* * *

But what do you do, with this much time to burn? How do you kill a century?

You keep moving.

* * *

He's been doing mercenary work out of this town for a couple years now, but he's too good at it. He's getting a reputation, which is the last thing he needs – it means people are looking at him too close. Time to start planning his escape.

But one day it just... happens. The group he's been working with is ambushed, and he's the only survivor. That makes it easy. If he doesn't go back to town, there's no one to say he didn't die with the rest.

Except he has a reputation, so people might not write it off that quick. They might look for him. He swaps gauntlets with one of the corpses and then stands back a few paces, squinting at his handiwork. No. That's still not the right number of bodies.

It's nothing personal. They weren't all buddy-buddy or anything, but he didn't _dislike_ these people. He makes a few strategic cuts, and then rearranges the scene so it's not clear who belongs to what severed limb, or even how many there were. If anybody finds this in the next few days, they'll see that five or six people were attacked here by overwhelming force, and none of them made it. The families will bury whatever parts they can positively identify, and the odds and ends will stand in for Bertrand. No one will ever wonder what became of him. Clean break.

He probably shouldn't be so relieved that five people just died. His former companions probably deserve better than this, and so do the people who love them. But no one gets what they deserve.

* * *

Fifty years since the ritual.

No one's asking anymore about what happened to Princess Violetta. It's an unsolved mystery - except to the very highest nobility, and even there, almost everyone who had the details is dead. Fifty years since the ritual, the story is she was abducted by family rivals and it was a national tragedy and all that shit, but the bloodline survived and her nephew's on the throne now, so life goes on.

Bertrand can confirm: it won't stop going _on._

Never let it be said he used the time unwisely. He's actually learned a lot. Like: sleeping through the winter like a bear is "hibernation," but sleeping through the summer is "aestivation." Each has its merits, but he's never had the cash to do them both in the same year. Lodging gets expensive, and worse, people get suspicious if you never leave your room and never order food. One way or the other, you have to move on eventually.

And that's leaving aside the whole "not aging" thing, which is somehow still an issue. If you hang around for ten years and never change, people give you the hairy eyeball. But the alternative, when no one's got a read on you and they think you're exactly what you look like, is getting patronized all day every day by people half your age. That's another thing he's learned: young people are insufferable. Frankly, they kinda suck. Their existence is unbearable today, for example, when he realizes it's been fifty years and he's still here, and all it's earned him is fifty more to wait.

He slaps a bag of coins down on the bar. It's all he has at the moment, which technically makes it his life savings. It's fucking worthless. "How much booze can I get for this?"

The bartender starts. He's a big guy, mid-late thirties. A child, as far as Bertrand cares. "Pardon?"

"And I don't need top-shelf stuff. I'm talking volume. How drunk can I get for four thousand ental? Give or take."

"Pretty drunk." Barkeep looks around. The place is pretty empty. This is the part, Bertrand realizes, where he comes over all concerned, tries to force a little human connection, because he has nothing better to do right now and maybe it'll net him some repeat business. They usually do that. He is never repeat business. "But hey, pal, you got something you wanna talk about?"

He smiles coldly. He's practiced this one. It's half "you wouldn't believe me if I told you" and half "fuck off." "No, _pal,_ I don't."

* * *

...And he's actually hung over the next day, which is total horseshit, because that doesn't _happen_ to him. It's the one goddamn benefit he's discovered, in all this time, of being a failed Fafnir. You can still get good and drunk if you put in the effort, and there are no drawbacks. You get up the next day fresh as a damn daisy.

Until now, apparently.

He unwraps his right hand and gives it a long hard look, but no, nothing’s changed there. Still got a monster arm. The transformation isn't wearing off, so this must be something else. He goes back to sleep.

But over the next few months, now that he's paying attention, he notices more. It’s starting to take longer for wounds to heal. His joints make noise. One time he falls asleep in an awkward position and pinches something in his neck, and it hurts all the next day. There are lines on his face – faint, but visible – that didn't used to be there.

So he's aging after all, even if it's slow. So he's still more or less human. So this will still end someday. What a relief.

Setting that aside, though, the daily reality is a motherfucker. He’s been old for decades, yeah, but he never had to feel it before. He still had the strength and reflexes of the young, and the resilience of the young who are at least 10% monster. But now? He’s over the hill, and he’ll be over the hill for a hell of a long time. This is life now. The second fifty years are gonna be worse.

* * *

He just happens to be in Lagaard again. He just happens to stop outside of town for a second and stare at what's left of Ginnungagap. The place may not look like he left it, but all the same, somewhere in there is a door that won't open. Not for another twenty years.

He remembers standing in the antechamber and realizing he was alone, staring at the bloody footprints leading to the Door of Boundaries and trying not to understand who left them there or what it meant. He remembers that when he did understand, he ran to the door and tried to wrench it open, and kept trying until he collapsed, and he remembers that he lost his voice, although not why.

He doesn't remember how it felt. He used to think he would never forget.

Well, whatever. There's not so much longer to hold out. He's waited this long already.

* * *

For decades if anybody knocked on his door he’d tell them to get lost. Suppressing that reflex takes some doing. But it’s Chloe, and you just can’t be an asshole to Chloe.

"C’mon in."

She opens the door an inch or two and sidles through, as if she could be sneaky while carrying a stack of books up to her chin. For a moment she just stands there against the wall, staring at him seriously. He’s met a lot of people. She’s better at staring than all of them.

At this time of night, she'd only visit for one reason. "Bad dreams again?" he says.

"Can I sit with you?"

"Knock yourself out."

"I don’t think that would help." She frowns. "Oh. Not literally. Got it." After another moment’s thought, she clarifies: "But being unconscious isn’t the same as sleep. You have to check for brain injuries. I know how."

Before she knocked, he was dozing off in the armchair, like some kind of old man or something. She climbs in next to him, and in the process several of her books fall on him. They are not light. "Do you really need all of these?" he says through gritted teeth.

"Just in case." She re-balances them in her lap and gets settled in, and somehow her elbows manage to hit every spot from the waist up that hasn’t already been mauled by her little library.

"We comfortable now?" he grumbles. The sarcasm slides off her. She wraps an arm around his, leans her back into his side, and opens the top book on the pile.

She’s still so _small,_ is what gets him. He didn’t have much to do with kids before her. Kinda fucked up to think that all the people he’s ever met, all the people who ever went and died on him, started out like this. And he must’ve been a kid once, too, before the ritual, before -

Never mind. "What are you reading about?" he asks her.

"Monsters."

"There’s your problem right there. Not the best material for bedtime."

"Monsters don’t scare me." Her arm wraps tighter around his. "I think they’re cool."

She’s sitting on his right side. Bandages or no bandages, that’s the Fafnir arm she’s holding on to. He looks down at her, feeling a chill, wondering, What does she know? But she keeps turning pages in silence.

"Trand," she says eventually. "You sleep a lot. Do you have dreams?"

Less and less often, over time. It’s probably been fifteen or twenty years now - well before Chloe was even born. And he wouldn't have it any other way. If sleep wasn’t a complete escape - if you had to keep thinking and remembering shit even when you were out cold - what would be the appeal?

"Because," says Chloe, "you sleep a lot, but you still look tired all the time."

"Don’t worry about it."

"Okay." And it’s that easy: she takes his word for it. She doesn’t always do that anymore - she’s getting way more opinionated this past year or so, and totally remorseless about calling people on their BS. But for tonight, good enough.

* * *

All this time he's been thinking in the abstract about "another ritual," but he wasn't thinking about another princess or another Fafnir. He's still trying to find his way around the ruins (and shit, Ginnungagap has aged even worse than he has. So many of the old halls are overgrown and flat-out impassable). He made Chloe repeat their cover story before they came out here, sure, but it's a crap story and he didn't plan on ever needing it. He didn't expect to meet them.

He definitely didn't expect three people. For a second he thinks this is the wrong group. They're treating this like a damn picnic. They wouldn't be in such high spirits if they were really here so one of them could be sealed up forever.

But he keeps watching from a distance. Chloe follows his gaze, and then moves to keep him between herself and the strangers. That woman definitely has the look of the Caledonian royal family – better not reflect on why he knows that look – and of the men, there's something about the white-haired one...

Maybe they _are_ here for the ritual. Maybe, after the last one blew up in their faces, Caledonia's just stopped telling anyone what it requires.

Well. At the rate things have been going, it's not like he's getting to the Door on his own.

* * *

Even if this wasn't all his fault, even if his failure a hundred years ago hadn't started this whole shitstorm, even if he hadn't already decided what he was gonna do...

This would've decided him.

At the Door of Boundaries, Arianna is a wreck and Flavio is worse. Either of them would go through in a heartbeat to save their friend. Both of them have already tried. And the kid? He had no idea this was coming, and yet he's taking it so well it's sickening. It's not right. He's so young. He has a life out there. Everyone in Lagaard adores him. And he's fine with losing it all?

So here's the big question, and it's a no-brainer. Who should sacrifice? Somebody who is loved that much? Or Bertrand?

Even Chloe is upset to see the kid go. Good. That means she'll get over what's about to happen.

* * *

At this point it's pretty much a win-win. Option A: he runs the kids off, the transformation is completed, the Calamity sealed. Whatever's down here will feed on him for a hundred more years, and then he'll be done. And honestly, what's another century of isolation, getting slowly worn down by some irresistible force you can't understand? He's already done it once. Let the expert handle this. The remains of the guild can all go home. 

Option B: skip right to the "dying" part. Dying outright is A-OK.

He's not totally in control right now. Something went wrong when the flow of power was broken. This body isn't totally his. Everything is on fire and his guild of two months is coming at him with killing intent, and all he thinks is, Oh. Interesting. He would stop short of killing them if he had the choice, but it might not be his call. Monster reflexes. What can you do.

But a part of him wants this. To say "fuck you for caring" and break them of their stupid hope, whatever they think they'll accomplish by stopping him. And that part of him has a big-ass sword.

All right. Fine. He knows exactly what he's doing.

And he knows exactly which blow is fatal. His heartbeat stumbles. He starts to lose balance. Option B it is. The flames at his feet gutter as the strength of Fafnir leaves him. His left arm is numb. He's got a long way to fall.

He feels an emotion he doesn't recognize.

But it's over. It's finally over. One hundred and nineteen years down the line, Bertrand de Gervaise is on his way out. There's a massive impact and a wave of heat, and with every unsteady pulse he's losing more and more blood. Hurts like hell, but who cares? He can _stop_ now. He doesn't have to do this anymore. At long last he's leaving this miserable slog behind.

That monster strength is at its final ebb. At last...

...okay what the fuck

* * *

_Violetta -_

* * *

Some really awkward conversations back at the inn. He figures he'll just let them say whatever they're gonna say, but it's way worse than he expected. He can't remember the last time he was successfully guilt-tripped. He didn't miss it.

Late that night, he trudges back upstairs. He can finally go to sleep. Everything hurts and he has no clue what happens next, but for now he can sleep, and put that off until tomorrow.

Except Chloe slips into the room before he can even sit down. No books this time. She hasn't even put her staff down. "I don't want you to leave again," she says. "I don't want you to leave or die or do anything stupid like that. I want you to live forever."

He smiles bitterly, shaking his head. "You don't know what you're asking."

"If it's too hard, then I'll live forever, too. So you won't get sad."

There's no answering that.

If she ever forgives him, he won't deserve it. She's young enough, and lucky enough, that losing people isn't routine. She hasn't had a life like his – no one has. Stupid to think she wouldn't mind if he stayed there underground. Stupid to think he could abandon her and she'd _get over it._ And she'll never forget that he tried.

"Chloe. I'm sorry."

"Me, too."

"You? What for?" She starts picking at the grain of her staff. "Stop that, you'll get splinters."

She doesn't stop. She says, even more deadpan and disinterested than usual, enough that it has to take a special effort, "If I knew we had to beat you up to make you stay, I could've done it sooner."

He has to chuckle at that, and puts a hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry. You made up for lost time, believe me." He'll be sore for a week.

They look at each other. He looks at his hand on her shoulder. He takes it away. "So, back to the Labyrinth tomorrow."

"Uh-huh."

"And the guy who made Scylla and the Flame Demon is supposed to help us."

"He doesn't sound like a good guy."

"That's my point."

"But you can't go back," says Chloe, suddenly heated. "You can't change your mind."

"I won't." Is this how it's going to be from now on? Is every conversation going to have this many hidden pitfalls? "I was just wondering..."

"Trand, you're the grown-up. _You're_ supposed to know what happens next. Don't ask me. It's too scary."

He sighs. "You're right." At least, she's right that he shouldn't put this on her. He just hasn't stopped fucking up since he got out of bed this morning. "We'll figure it out. Look, go get some rest, okay?" She hesitates before leaving. "I'll still be here tomorrow. I promise."

"You'd better be." She flees.

* * *

Chloe enters his room with a pile of books, like she used to do all the time. She hasn't in two weeks. He says, "What, was Mr. Sword busy?" But it's not that he's bitter. It's great that she's getting along with the kid so well. It's progress. She's getting less shy, learning that there are some people out in the world that she can trust. Eventually she won't need Bertrand at all, and given everything that's happened, maybe sooner is better.

"He has a name," she says. "Scoot over." When she sits next to him, she causes just as much collateral damage as ever. Maybe he should thank his replacement for taking some of the heat off him. There's only so many careless knees to the gut an old man can take.

She reads for a while, like before. And then she says, "I’ve read all these books three times already."

Then why bring them? he thinks. Just for the pleasure of throwing them at me? But he says, "We’ll have to get you some new ones. The city’s growing every day. They’ve gotta have a bookseller by now."

"That sounds good." She leans her head against his shoulder. "Tell me a story."

"You've already heard every one I've got."

"About Ms. Guardian." She thinks for a second. "About Violetta."

Oh.

How long has she been planning this? Could she not have just, say, punched him a couple times instead?

She goes on. "You’re the only person alive who remembers her. She seemed really cool. You’re not going anywhere. But I want to remember too."

"‘Really cool,’ huh," he says, still dazed. She was that, but she was way more than that, and where do you even start? "Yeah, she was… something special." Stupid. He’s the only person alive who remembers her, and that’s all he’s got? "Sorry, you kinda put me on the spot here -" As if that’s an excuse.

Chloe turns to look up at him, frowning. And then, to the extent she can even reach, she pats his back. "That's okay. I can wait until you’re ready."

She has no idea how condescending she is, or how goddamn weird this gesture comes off from a kid to an adult. She really is trying to be nice. "Thanks," he says, and on his part he tries not to sound too sarcastic.

She settles down with her book again, and it looks like the worst is over. But eventually she says, "Tell me something else," and he winces. "What did you do before you met me? You had a hundred years. What was it like?"

"No. No way. We’re not going there."

"Why not?"

He doesn’t want to talk about it, he doesn’t want her to hear about it, and it’s hard to say which is more important. "There’s not a lot in my past that’s kid-friendly, okay?"

"Exploring the Labyrinth isn’t kid-friendly. Fighting a demon isn’t kid-friendly. Having another guild try to murder you isn’t -"

"All right, stop."

"If I had a hundred years, I would eat every kind of meat in the world. And I’d learn a bunch of languages so I could read more books. And then I’d climb a really big mountain. Did you climb any mountains?"

He snorts. "Not for fun, if that’s what you’re asking."

That was a mistake. She makes the obvious response: "So what _did_ you do for fun?"

Nothing, obviously. The answer is "nothing." He was just trying to stay alive as painlessly as possible. Enjoying the wait? That's setting the bar too high. "I slept," he says, and hopes that pause wasn't too noticeable.

"That doesn't count. Sleeping isn't fun."

"It is if you're lazy." She makes a disapproving noise. "What? You tell other people sleeping is my only hobby. Suddenly it's not okay if _I_ say it?"

"It's different," she says, but she lets it go there.

The thread she picks up next is worse. "Did you make lots of friends?"

* * *

And it doesn't stop happening. Chloe has apparently decided that the cure for insomnia, every couple of days, is asking him invasive questions. For every one he deflects, she has two more ready to go, and she won't take a hint. She won't even take a blunt "Chloe, we're not talking about this." She sits beside him undeterred, leafing through some book or other, and keeps asking questions even if he stops answering at all. Like she's trying to puzzle something out.

One evening out of the blue, she says, "I get it now. You decided to be the next Black Guardian because you’re tired of being alive and you feel bad all the time. Thanks. I wanted to know why."

He sighs, rolling his eyes. "You don’t have to put it like that, but okay." It’s the first time it’s ever been put in words at all, and it sounds fucking bizarre. It sounds like something that has nothing to do with him. Who the hell said he "feels" "bad?"

"That hedgehog we met," says Chloe. "It was hurt, but when Arianna tried to help, it attacked us. You’re like that, Trand."

Well, he did literally fight them all down in Ginnungagap. But it doesn’t sound like that’s what she means, and he’s not gonna admit to anything else. He’s not here to get his brain dissected by a preteen. "Just read your book. It’s way past your bedtime."

"But there’s still one thing I don’t understand."

"Try a dictionary. I could swear you dropped one on my foot just now." It was that or a brick.

Chloe ignores him. "When Violetta went away, it messed you up really bad for a really long time. Maybe forever."

"Hey, can we not -"

"So why did you think it was okay to do that to me?"

He can’t speak. Chloe, perfectly calm, resumes reading.

Finally he says, "It’s not the same. I -" I what? He’s got nothing. He falls silent again. Chloe keeps leaning on him like nothing happened.

Seconds creep by. He shakes his head. "Chloe, look. The world’s not a nice place. Someone had to stay down there. Why should it be him and not me?"

"But we got you both out."

"Nobody knew going in that that was going to work. And we still don’t know. You guys broke the cycle that’s keeping this land alive, and you didn’t have a backup plan. If the Overlord can’t or won’t help us, the world could end next week. When I started the transformation, at least that was a sure thing." Yeah. That’s how he’s getting out of this one. Focus on the practical, don’t touch the other stuff. He can breathe a little easier now. "Someone had to stay," he says again. "Or are you going to tell me you wanted to lose your new friend forever?"

Chloe goes stiff. "That’s _wrong_. You’re being mean."

Shit.

She’s right about the hedgehog. And maybe everything else. This is Chloe he’s talking to - this kid is family. And _you can’t be an asshole to Chloe._

"Fine. You got me," he says, softer. She doesn’t stir. "I fucked up. I…" He sighs. "By the time Violetta…" He can’t quite say it. Skip that part for now. "I didn’t have anyone else left. I used to wonder if they planned that. To make sure I’d go to the sacrifice without a fight. Probably the same reason they picked an orphan this time around.

"So yeah. Maybe it did things to me. Maybe… things I wasn’t strong enough to deal with. But that’s all on me. I should never have left her there." If he’d done it right, he’d be dead now, Violetta would have lived to a fine old age, and Chloe wouldn’t miss what she’d never had.

She still says nothing.

"You’re right. I’m wrong. Okay? I didn’t think it would be that hard on you. I mean, you have a family, and you’re making friends - " And he’s making excuses. "I’m sorry."

She closes her book. "Trand."

"Yeah."

"Never again. Promise."

He’s had a long and varied life. He’s had to get out of a lot of weird situations, and he’s broken all kinds of laws. He has no qualms about lying. If he doesn’t do it often, it’s just because keeping a story straight is more work than saying nothing.

That’s not what’s stopping him. The thing is, he could promise. But he wouldn’t actually _know_ whether it was true or not. And it feels wrong, saying something before he knows what he’s committing to. Either staying alive, or lying to Chloe.

She says, "You’re hesitating."

"Chloe -"

She gets up, hugging her book to her chest, and turns her back on him. "You’re not alone anymore. You have to start acting like it." She slams the door behind her.

* * *

"It seems cruel," Violetta said once, near the end. "To have to sacrifice yourself for a world that's been so hard on you."

Sympathy always made him uncomfortable, even then. "Eh. I don't mind."

"There are so many good things you never got to experience."

"So I drew the short end of the stick. It happens."

She shook her head, but said nothing else.

He can't sleep. For the first time in living memory, he can't sleep. After lying awake for half an hour in bed, he moved back to the chair, in case it was just his back acting up or something. But he's still awake. And _thinking_ , about the exact kind of thing he normally goes to sleep to avoid thinking about.

Violetta wanted him to have a chance at life. She wanted it so much she used the last of her strength to give it to him. Twice now. And this is all he's done with it. He's a world-class ingrate. But couldn't she have asked what _he_ wanted? Couldn't she have thought about the kind of life he was bound to have?

He remembers going home after she disappeared. Finding his sister. She said, "I thought you had to stay there forever," and he said, "Change of plans, pack everything you can carry," and they hit the road within the hour.

And a year later, when it was clear she'd had enough, he said, "It's me they're after. They won't recognize you traveling alone. Just change your name and try to start over somewhere."

"The Gervaise name is all I have."

"I don't know if you know this," he drawled, "but the Gervaise name is mud."

He could have been nicer about it. He would never see her again. Those were the last few seconds of his life when he had a family. Until now, when he was stupid enough to start again.

History repeats in other ways. Violetta gave him his life, unasked, again. Far be it from him to defy the dying wish of a princess twice in a row, so, yeah, it's settled: he'll live. It took him a hundred years to age from "twentyish" to "fortysomething," so it's going to take a while for this body to run down completely, but it will someday. Another hundred years, one-fifty if he's unlucky. He can grit his teeth that long, if it's what Violetta wanted. He'll live. But even she can't make him like it.

It goes without saying that he'll have to leave. People here know the guild, so they know him, so the longer he sticks around after their work is done, the bigger the risk someone will notice something fishy. And even if everything goes without a hitch and they're all heroes and the town will protect them – he doesn't want to see three out of four of these kids get old and die before him.

He can't watch anything bad happen to Chloe.

"You're not alone anymore," she said, as if this is a permanent state of affairs. As if anything's really changed. Yeah, he's stuck around the same people longer than usual this time. Sure, this has been an especially eventful fourteen or fifteen years. That doesn't mean he's staying for good. He goes somewhere new, he stays as long as he safely can, and he gets the hell out, that's the cycle. And he has to get back to it. This go-round just got a little weird, that's all. It's a fluke. Doesn't affect the big picture.

It's been a long time since he had anyone new to miss. He can't keep doing this. He can't do this, ever again. Once he's out of here, for as long as it takes, he's gotta just keep his head down and kill time, and wait until time finally kills him.

In the weak light of the moon he stares at his hand. When he really thinks about it, he hates the damn thing.

And he still can't sleep.


End file.
